Music, Love, Desire
by Aleyn Meagher
Summary: After six years, Claude no longer feels for Esmeralda, and is more concerned about what is happening. His concern leads him to meeting a Venetian flutist... and his "strange" desires come back to haunt him. But, he wishes to control it... for her sake.
1. Treble Clef

It was just another beautiful evening in the city of Notre Dame; the luminous orange and pink rays of the sunset ricocheted off of the windows of the church's cathedral, sending multicolored reflections of light out across the city; large Vs of geese flew South; merchants whom were earlier selling their goods had closed up shop and were all conversing about today's sales; and children were playing in the streets, dawned by the looming shadows of the surrounding buildings. Ever since autumn had come around the corner, things have been much more peaceful in this particular city. There was almost no crime, the people got along, and the general feeling of Notre Dame was completely different. It was as if they had come out of their personal Dark Ages.

It was then, the sound of an arrow or two hitting a stone wall was heard. Bolting out of an alleyway was a woman with short dark red hair and with glasses upon the bridge of her nose. Over her glasses, she wore a white Venetian mask with blue markings. She wore a maroon, orange and brown outfit with a one would only see at the Carnivalle in Venice. She also had a matching hat with a large feather on it. She held a long, thin, black box to her chest for dear life. Almost right on her tail was two guards with sturdy-looking crossbows. They pulled one more arrow each out of their quivers, and strung it to the bow string, pulling them back to lock the arrow into place until firing. Taking deadly aim upon the backs of her calves, they fired. The arrows had made cuts across her skin, but it was not a hit. The two guards cursed at their second miss.

The woman headed into the town square; for she was sure that the large crowd would make it easier for her to escape…. Unless of course, the guards called out, "Saisissez l'italien!" meaning, "Grab the Italian!" All may be right between the people of Notre Dame, but this was a rough time between the French and the Italians. The only reason the guards were after her, was because they had orders to capture and interrogate all Italians residing in Notre Dame. And the only reasons they knew that she were Italian, was one: because she could speak English and Italian only, not French; two: she had quite a thick Italian accent; and three: because all of her physical features showed it.

She ran headstrong into the large crowd around the water fountain, shoving and pushing people to let her blend in with them. She guessed that many had already figured out that she was Italian, for they gave her accusing looks. But luckily enough for her, they did not think much of it at all. Other people just stood there with dumbfounded expressions upon their faces, watching her go.

She eventually made it to the other side of the crowd, and had stumbled into an alley. Tripping on a wooden crate, she fell forward, stretching out her arms to not let any harm come to the box she possessed, and knocking the wind out of her entirely. Moaning a little in pain, she stood up and looked over her shoulder back towards the crowd. She let out a small sigh of relief when she realized the guards had lost her. She walked a little further into the alley, and sat in between two large carts that had hay stacked upon them.

She decided to open her box. With a broad smile, she carefully opened the lid. Inside was perhaps the most beautiful flute anyone had ever seen. Even without the light of the sun or moon, it glimmered, reflecting its own light in small proportions. Not only that, but it was spotless, too. She pulled a cloth out of her pocket and laid it atop the flute for cleaning after she played it later. Closing the lid, she held the box to her. Right now, nothing else in the world could make her happier than her flute did.

"Hey Piper!" A voice was heard that she knew all too well. Sighing, she turned to face the end of the alley opposite of the end she had run in from. Standing there was a red haired man, about six foot two. Giorgio Flarenze. "Are you _still_ running?"

"Yes." She answered him with a groan. "Why, Strings?" She decided to play his nickname game.

"Ha ha, yes, that was me." He chuckled.

"You still are." She said flatly. "I do not see how you could have _possibly_ given up such a lovely violin. Was it truly worth it?"

"Yes… and no." He scratched behind his head. "I had no choice, for I wished to make a living. And now I have a family to support."

"We _did_ make a living." She protested. "And we had a family… brother…"

"Do you now? No. You constantly refuse to be interrogated _only once,_ and you hang on to that flute like it's your lover!" His expression softened. "Times have changed, Piper. No one wants to listen to music anymore. Especially not in this city if they have to pay for it. And… we were siblings only through music. Remember that, Piper."

Infuriated by his words, she stood up and walked over to him, ready to slap him clear across the face. He recognized the anger in her eyes, and quickly looked for a solution. But, finding none, he decided to just leave. Making it to the end of the alley, she looked around to find him in the main street, but he was gone like the wind. Sighing in disbelief, she walked out into the open. Taking another quick look around, she noticed a man sitting on a bench being cast over by rays of the setting sun.

He wore a long black truss, a bulbous black and green hat with a red ribbon, black shoes, and a few bejeweled rings upon his long, pale fingers. He had pale skin most likely from lack of sunlight, short grey hair, and a long face with small shadows under his eyes. He sat with his head in his hands, looking down with a very depressed look upon his face.

The moment "Piper" saw him, it was as if a rock had slammed into her chest, and a song instantly sprang into mind. She held her flute tightly to herself, and slowly approached the stranger.

A tall man dressed in a black truss walked through the streets of Notre Dame at sunset. He adjusted his large hat and looked down, inspecting the tiny grey mice that had gathered at his feet. He let out a sigh and continued walking, scaring the mice away, making them scatter in all directions. He was in no mood to deal with much of anything this particular day.

Many merchants who were closing up shop stopped what they were doing and looked at him, wondering if he wanted to buy anything. They called out to him in a friendly tone, but one look at his face told them that he was not to be disturbed from his train of thought. But, to their utmost surprise, he looked at them, and without smiling, waved to them.

Looking back down, he continued walking to no chosen destination whatsoever. He stopped once and looked up. Somewhere in the distance, he had heard the sound of two crossbows being shot, and then the sound of two arrows hitting a stone wall. Uncertain of what to make of the noise, he kept on walking, only this time, with his head held up. His eyes darted around as he scanned the area, making sure that there was no suspicious activity. Notre Dame these days may have almost no crime, but one could not be too careful, for there were Italian refugees, escapees, illegal immigrants, and spies in Paris.

He sighed once again and cursed himself for ever allowing France's battalion to ever try and go claim Italy. It started with only the Southern island, Sicily, for its fertile land and beautifully delicious tomatoes. The people of Sicily had given in when they saw the French battalion, so there was no struggle and no killing whatsoever. That was a good thing, and he counted it as a blessing. Then the tides began to change, and the battalion had taken an irresponsible action without orders to do so. They had moved north into the mainland, setting a course for Rome.

Rome was once the unmatched Roman Empire. They had ruled ninety percent of the world, and to this day, although the Empire no longer exists, it remains unmatched. The leader of the battalion must have believed that the Empire still existed, and if they could claim it, they would claim that ninety percent of the world. He guessed that they were sorely disappointed when they realized that the Empire had fallen, and Italy was its own country.

The next move they made was going into Florence. He always believed that the French admired and appreciated art the most, so he believed that it was Florence's museums and fine architecture that had driven them there. Not to mention Milan. He shuddered at the thought of all the fine artwork that must have been stolen, and will be brought back to Paris.

And lastly, as if to only make it worse, the battalion had attacked the Venetians during Carnivalle; the most loved time of the year for the denizens of Venice. What was in Venice besides a gorgeous opera house, he was not sure, but he knew that it was a bad idea. Since he was out of touch with the leader of the battalion, there was nothing he could do about it. He hated the thought of all of the innocent, friendly Italians being slaughtered for no reason. He had no choice but to blame it on himself.

Another thing that has him depressed is the fact that Esmeralda, the gypsy woman who had actually stolen his heart, giving him a strange, burning desire, had left the city six years ago, and has not been seen since. He no longer felt for her, which in his opinion was a good thing, but he could not help but wonder about her. What she was doing, where she is, if she is happy, so on and so forth.

He felt that her leaving had caused him to be a better person all together. Thinking back on himself, he had found out exactly how cruel he had been to everyone around him, and it made him feel sick. He wanted to apologize to everyone he had been a jerk to, but he had not the courage, and he did not think that it would make a difference. So, he focused on changing himself, which seemed to work. Although he was greatly angered with himself for deliberately allowing the invasion of Italy, he was satisfied and happy with his new self. He was kind to everyone now, and they showed the same kindness back to him.

All of a sudden, he heard two more arrows being shot. This time, the dull thud told him that they had sank into the ground. Looking around, he found that he had somehow stumbled into the main street. He stopped in midstride and looked back over his shoulder. There was nothing but a small amount of people all scattered in the street, walking towards their destinations. He rubbed his eyes, and even thought about pinching himself, just to make sure that he was not dreaming or fantasizing the noises he was hearing.

Finding a bench, he sat down with his elbows on his knees, and held his head in his hands. He sat there motionless for a few minutes, until he heard gentle footsteps coming his way. Snapping his head up, he locked eyes with a woman with eyes that seemed to shift back and forth from green to hazel, dark red, shoulder-length hair, pale skin, long legs, and a decent hourglass figure. She wore glasses under a white Venetian mask with blue markings and Venetian Carnivalle clothing, and she was holding a black box to her chest. "Piper".

"Hmm…" the man studied her appearance further. He looked back up to her with a small smile upon his face. "You must be the Venetian woman the guards are so worked up about."

"Piper" felt a pain in her chest as he said those words to her. She was not sure how to take it, and was concerned if she had made a mistake of revealing herself to him.

"Um…" she was unsure of what to say. Her accent and disability to speak French was a dead giveaway. She gave up on thinking of ways to fool him, and changed the subject to the reason she had approached him. "Would you like to hear a song, signore?" She asked with a shy smile.

The man now looked somewhat amused. "I do not have any money with me at the moment." He said sadly.

"Piper" proceeded to take out her flute and put it together. "You need not pay." She said. Flashing a smile at him, she put the mouthpiece of the flute to her full bottom lip.

The flute must have been the finest tuned instrument in Paris, for the man had never heard such a beautiful sound. Allowing the music to enter him through his ears and flow through his body, he was truly moved by her playing. Not only that, but she danced as she played, moving to her rhythm, and with the emotion that the sound of her flute produced, truly entertaining him. He found himself somewhat mesmerized by the entire act, and _her_. He began to feel strange, but forced the feeling away.

She timed herself carefully, and slowly and rhythmically waltzed over to him. She ended it with an arpeggio followed by a low G, then a B above the scale. Feeling _in the moment_ of the performance like she had when she was with the other musicians, without thinking, she leaned forward and kissed both of his cheeks… just like any other Venetian musician would. His bewildered expression pulled her back to reality and told her, "Big. Mistake." Suddenly feeling frightened, she backed away from him.

"Please, forgive me… I…" She could not find the words to express just how sorry she was. Surprisingly, he held up a hand and smiled at her.

"Thank you." He said kindly. "That was the first time in ages music truly touched my heart."

"Really?" "Piper" was overjoyed to hear this. "I am glad you enjoyed it, signor…?"

"Frollo. Claude Frollo." He walked over to her and kissed the back of her left hand. This sent him an adrenaline rush he knew all too well, so he stepped back a few paces. "Judge, minister… and Frenchman." She giggled. "And you are?"

In her performing days, she would only have been known as "Piper", or "The Pied Piper", "Minstrel", and even as "Treble Clef". But, since those days were over, she finally felt no harm in letting a lone listener in on her real name.

"Diorio. Samantha Diorio." She mimicked his introduction style, making him chuckle. "Musician, cook… and Italian."

Claude pondered on something for a moment, then asked. "Mademoiselle, how would you like to be my personal minstrel, cook… and Italian?" The last part made her giggle again. "You may live in the cathedral with the archdeacon and I, perform your duties, and be happy." He smiled. "It must be a hard life, always being trailed by guards, and living in fear."

Samantha was so happy; she felt she could sing two octaves above the scale. "Thank you, signor Frollo! But… how do I be your Italian?" She smiled at him.

"I shall figure something out." Claude instantly began to feel relieved for he was helping one of many people who must have lost their families, but at the same time, he felt regret. His strange feelings were coming back to haunt him. That could be a very bad thing in the future, or perhaps this experience would teach him how to control himself. He could only hope that learning control was the case. He no longer wished to feel a victim to sin… especially since he was a man of religion.


	2. Bass Clef

Samantha sat down on a nearby bench and pulled out the cloth she had put in her flute case earlier. Claude watched her in curiosity as she began disassembling her flute one piece at a time and hooked the cloth around one end of a long, thin stick. She proceeded to carefully push the stick inside each piece of the flute, and cleaned out the inside. He sat down next to her and offered to hold her case. She thanked him, handed it over, and continued wiping off the outside of the instrument. Her fingerprints were eventually all wiped clean, and it was impossible to tell that the gleaming, silver flute had just been used not five minutes ago. Using the cloth, she gripped each piece and set them into their proper places within the case. She laid the cloth over it once more, and Claude enclosed the instrument, latching the case. He handed it back to her, and she thanked him again.

Upon standing up, the two looked towards the cathedral of Notre Dame. "So," Claude began. "Are you ready?" He looked down to her, and she merely smiled and nodded. As if out of instinct, he laid a protective hand on her shoulder, and they began their long walk. For the first few minutes, they were completely silent. Although there was no language barrier between the two, they were both a little uncertain about something. Samantha was nervous from the fact that she was walking with, and will be living with her supposed enemy. And Claude was worried about if she ever figured out that it was _him_ who had sent the French battalion to Italy, and if he could fight his desires. He only hoped that nothing ever happened that he would end up regretting. He would hate to hurt the person he was trying to help.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, Claude asked her, "How long have you been in Paris?"

"About five months now." She answered, looking up to him with a smile. "I was with a group of other musicians. We traveled all over Europe."

He averted his gaze from her smile. "Did you ever play in Notre Dame?"

"Yes, we played at the Festival of Fools a number of times." Claude stopped in his tracks, and she almost tripped over her own feet. "Is something wrong, signor Frollo?"

He looked back down to her, looking past her Venetian mask, past her glasses, and straight into her pupils as if he was trying to pry through her memories. "Wait a second…" He thought for a second, and then clapped his hands together once. "Le anime di Venezia!" He said with a wide smile. She looked pleased.

"Yes!"

"Oh, wow!" Claude took his hat off and rustled his hair. "I remember last year, you all were amazing!" He began to slip into a memory.

July fifth, 1682. Claude Frollo mounted his black steed and stormed away from the cathedral into the city of Notre Dame on his rounds. After completing his duties, he would go to the Festival of Fools and enjoy the show with the rest of the denizens of this part of Paris. This would be the first time in at least five years that he had gone to the Festival, so, of course, he was greatly looking forward to it. If he were to be honest with himself, he would not have even thought about going, due to his last experience. He shuddered at the memory, and decided to block it out of his mind.

Rounding the corner of each and every street, he found nothing of interest, no excitement, and no crime he needed to put a stop to, just a few alley cats fighting over a dead mouse. Upon finding another dead mouse, he dismounted his horse, picked up the lifeless creature carefully by its tail, and tossed it in between the two squabbling felines. They instantly stopped fighting, and each took off with one mouse each.

Allowing his horse to stop for a drink of water from a nearby trough, he leaned against a brick wall, folded his arms across his chest, and sighed. Just like every year, there was absolutely nothing but boredom awaiting him throughout the entire day. He wished that at least once, he would have to jump into something more than just a "cat fight". Suddenly, he heard lively music coming from the town square. It was not like any music he had ever heard before, but it sounded too professional to be a traveling band's original work. Eager to get to the Festival, he mounted his steed once more, and headed off into the direction of the excitement.

Arriving at the town square, he saw the usual decorations, the stage, and the large crowds of people. But, unlike nothing he has ever seen before, standing atop the stage were musicians wearing the most incredible attire he had ever seen. Not only was it extremely colorful, but the style was not France's finest. He figured that the musicians must be from another country. They wore beautiful masks upon their faces, and the ones that could move with their instrument in hand were dancing while playing. A smile stretched across his face as he watched the foreign performers in awe.

Among every performer on stage, only one stole his attention: the flutist. Vigorously playing, her fingers moving at rapid speeds, she gracefully skipped and danced towards him after she noticed his watch over her. There must have been a short resting period within the piece of music for her, for she pulled the flute away from her lips, flashed him a wide smile, and pulled off her hat, revealing her dark red hair with a bright red ribbon tied around the top. She undid the knot fastening the ribbon to her head, lightly wrapped it around his neck, and then kissed both of his cheeks, followed by the bridge of his nose. He was so dumbfounded by it all; he had not noticed her making a butterfly bow around his neck with her ribbon. Everyone around him laughed at him playfully, and she blew him a kiss before dancing off with her flute once more. It was the most embarrassing, yet one of the happiest moments of his life in the past five years. He made sure to keep her ribbon safe, although he thought that they would never meet again.

Ever since then, when he was alone, he often caressed the ribbon, just thinking about her. At one point, he thought he was being driven mad by it, and put it away in a drawer next to his bed, and has not allowed himself to touch it.

Coming back from his memory, Claude looked closely at Samantha. _It could not _possibly _be the same flutist… but… could it be? _He thought. She looked up to him with a curious expression. It did not match the lively, joyous, crafty expression of the flutist who had given him the ribbon. Her playing also did not match hers. The playing of the woman standing next to him had a more controllable tempo with a much deeper, more emotional sound that made him want to hold her in his arms and never let go, compared to the frantic, exciting playing of the other flutist that made him wish to dance to the rhythm, like her own puppet without strings.

Forcing away those thoughts from his mind, he asked her, "How did you all ever fall apart?" He regretted those words, for her expression instantly darkened, and she faced downwards.

"When the French battalion attacked Venezia, all Venetians in Notre Dame were forbidden to leave." She explained. "We were getting ready to practice for this year's Festival of Fools when a group of guards stormed in on us. They only wished to interrogate us for information, but we refused, and scattered across the city. We have not exactly seen each other as a group since then, but I have watched as those brutes took my friends and fellow musicians to their jail chambers. I have only met one of them face to face… today, to be exact. Giorgio…"

Claude once more laid a protective hand on her shoulder. This time, it was also a comforting hand. "I wish there was something I could do for your friends, but I do not know where they could be." That statement could not have been closer to the truth. Ever since he lost contact with the battalion he sent, he lost all control over every authority figure in France. It was turning into madness for _him_ as well as the Italians.

"I hope the idiot who sent the battalion to Italy in the first place knows what will be in store for him once I find him." She glared at the stone walkway. Fortunately for Claude, she had not heard him gulp. "I just want to shove my flute down his throat… he can keep it…"

Cold beads of sweat ran down Claude's face. Yet another challenge had been set before him: not allowing her, under _any_ circumstances, to know that it was his entire fault. He suddenly felt the urgent need to pray. For the innocent victims, for Samantha and the other musicians, for the madness to come to an end, and for his stupidity, which he thought should be called a sin.

"Signor Frollo?" Her voice snapped him back to reality.

"What? Oh, yes my dear?" He tried to sound calm, which was not really working out. She just gave him a concerned look from behind her Venetian Mask. "No worries! I am… ack!" Without even realizing it, the two had already reached the cathedral… and he tripped over the bottom step, falling flat on his face.

"Signor!" Samantha exclaimed in surprise. She helped him up and sat him down on the steps. He was a little dazed from the impact, and was seeing double, no, _triple_ of everything. "Are you alright?"

"What…happened…?" He said slowly, only now noticing the pain. "Ow…"

"Hang on." She removed her hat, only to reveal her hair, the strings holding the Venetian Mask to her face, and a bright red ribbon. She undid the ribbon, but instead of his neck, she wrapped it around his head, applying pressure and making it tight against his nose. "This should stop your nosebleed." She smiled at him.

Unable to believe what he had seen, he put his fingers against the ribbon. It felt exactly the same as the one that had been "given" to him almost a year ago. _No, it cannot be… is it really her? _He thought. _If so, why does she not remember who I am? Then again, she must have met many thousands of people since then. No… it cannot be her. Impossible! I shall not believe it until there is proof. _

"Signor Frollo? Are you still with me?" She waved a hand in front of his face. She guessed that he must be extremely dazed, and wondered if she should get the archdeacon for help. "Hmm… You seem awfully…"

The sound of opening doors cut her off in mid-sentence. Looking over Claude's shoulder, she saw the archdeacon himself standing there. He looked surprised, yet somewhat pleased to see her.

"Signore… I think signor Frollo needs assistance." She said.

"No! I am fine!" Claude said abruptly, startling her. "Sorry…" He looked up to the archdeacon. He did not have the happiest expression in the world, in fact, he looked somewhat angry at him. "Is something wrong?"

"Minister Frollo, those troops are getting out of hand." The archdeacon folded his arms over his chest.

"I know." Claude replied flatly. He was thankful that he used French instead of English.

"What…?" Samantha was confused.

"There is nothing to worry about, Miss." The archdeacon smiled at her. "I take it you cannot understand French?"

"Not one bit." She admitted. "Only a few simple words." As the two stood up, Claude placed a hand on her shoulder once more.

"Shall we?" He gestured to the cathedral with his other hand.

Unsure of what his outstretched hand was actually supposed to mean, she took it in her hand, and laced her fingers with his. She then placed her other hand on his shoulder. "You wish to dance?" She asked.

Claude's face grew red from a mixture of embarrassment, humor, and yet again a strange feeling. Feeling something inside of him, he tried to rip his hand out of hers, but her grip was too strong to be broken. He even felt one of his knuckles pop. Hearing that made the archdeacon laugh.

_Please… let go! Or we shall _both_ regret it! _Claude thought. He could not force himself to say it aloud. At least not with the laughing archdeacon there.

A little annoyed, Samantha finally let go of her hold on him. She wondered what could have possibly been bothering him so much. But, she decided to ignore it for the time being. She wanted to hurry up and get inside before any guards noticed her. Although she was sure that Claude would protect her, she still wanted nothing to do with the guards in Notre Dame. To her, they were nothing more than cheap knock-off-soldiers and brutish thugs.

"Well, Minister Frollo." The archdeacon said calmly. "I suggest you go find a room for our new friend." And then he added in French. "A room that is _not_ your own…"

Claude huffed, gestured inside, and the three of them walked into the Sanctuary.


	3. Harmony

The inside of the cathedral was dark and forbidding. Large pillars ran from the white marble floor up into the blackness of the ceiling above. Over the doorway was a beautiful stained glass window from which the light of the setting sun crept into the sanctuary, sending multicolored rays of light in all different directions, but no light, other than that of the torches in the inner chamber, were bright enough to pierce the silent darkness. On the walls, also leading up to the ceiling, were statues of people. They looked down upon the three; some curiously, some accusingly, some angrily, and some sadly. Samantha could not see a happy statue amongst them, and they somewhat frightened her.

"Who are they...?" She wondered aloud, still looking up at the statues. She locked eyes with one of them and just stood there, dumbfounded. "Wait...is that...Sant'Ambrogio?"

The Archdeacon looked at her, apparently pleased. "You know your Saints!"

"Of course, I am Roman Catholic." She replied flatly. "Sant'Ambrogio was a 5th century bishop. Born in Milano, he founded a religious community in Roma. When the Arian Bishop of Milano died, he worked for a peaceful election of his successor. At that time, he was not even baptized, and his concern for peace in the Church most likely came from practical considerations...at least it made his job as governor easier. But during his speech to the people, somebody cried out: "Ambrogio for bishop!" The whole crowd of listeners took a liking to that, and within a week, he was baptized and appointed Bishop del Milano." She looked back at the two men after her little 'report', only to find them with shocked and or dumbfounded looks upon their faces. They were utterly speechless. "Que?" She shrugged.

Both Claude and the Archdeacon were greatly impressed by her deep intelect involving the Catholic Church. Claude decided to point out another Saint and ask her about him or her, only because he was so ammused, impressed, and he loved how her Italian accent grew thicker and how she spoke faster as she continued speaking.

"How about that one?" He pointed up without looking and asked her. She took one look, and looked as if she were going to burst into laughter.

"That...that is...haha...Je...Jesus Christ..." She put both hands over her face and began laughing hysterically.

Claude looked up and realized his folly. He blushed from embarrassment, and looked away. The Archdeacon could not help but laugh, too.

"That is why we _look_, Minister Frollo." He said with a wide smile, still laughing.

"R...right..." This was turning out to be one embarrassing day for him. At least he was able to take his mind off of the situation in Italy. Unable to contain himself, he began laughing, too. "Okay...okay..._that_ one?" He looked this time, and pointed to a male Saint.

Samantha calmed herself, and turned her attention to the Saint he was pointing out. "Ahh, that is San Bartolomeo. Apostle and martyr of the 1st century. Ah yes, Bartolomeo was one of the very Twelve Apostles themselves. He was introduced to Christ by Saint Filippo, another one of the Twelve. But what I find strange is, even though he was one of the Twelve, and is also a witness of the Ascension, each time named in the company of Filippo, he is one of the apostles of whom no word is reported nor any individual action recorded in the New Testament. Nor are there any early acta."

Once again, the two men looked extraordinarily pleased with her. She decided to have a little fun. Looking back up, she pointed out another male Saint. "Do you two know who that is?" She looked at the two of them with a sly smile. To her disappointment, they shook their heads. Locking eyes with Claude, she continued. "San Claudio."

"Huh...?" The two said together.  
"Yes." Samantha gave them a warm smile. "He was a 6th century priest, monk, abbot, and bishop of France. There was no doubt that he had come from nobility. At a young age, Claudio was entrusted to toutors, and in his own time, delved into the studies of the lives of Saints. He was elected, at age thirty-four, to serve as the twelfth abbot, during the reign of Pope John Paul IV. He had built new churches and reliquaries, and fed the poor and the pilgrims in the area. Upon the death of Saint Gervasius, the archbishop of Besancon, he was elected as the archbishop." She waltzed up to Claude and poked the tip of his nose lightly. "I bet you were named after him, for he _was_, and you _are_, a great man." Turning to the archdeacon she added with a small smile, "Right?" All the archdeacon could do was smile, nod, and try not to laugh at Claude whose face was turning redder than before.

"A...anyway..." Trying to hide his face, Claude turned his back to the two. "Allow me to find a room for you, Miss Diorio." He put one hand on the small of her back. The archdeacon smiled and nodded to them as if to wish them a temporary farewell. She smiled back hesitantly, and then allowed Claude to lead her through the inner sanctuary.

The torches did not do as good of a job lighting the place as it had seemed they did from a distance. Samantha found herself clinging to Claude's robes, for her eyes were worse in the darkness, and her glasses did little to help her see. She could not even see down past her waist, which for her, was a very frightening thing. Her knees smacked a pew a good three or four times, and had her nearly limping, still holding onto Claude's robes. They eventually made it to a spiral staircase that was well-lit, even if the light was that of a few candles. They climbed the stairs in silence, and stopped at about halfway up when in reaching another door. Claude opened it, revealing a dark corridor.

"Are...we really going through..._here?_" Samantha questioned him. She had to admit, with her poor vision, the dark was an especially scary thing. Looking around at what she could see, the corridor was very tight. _Just my luck...dark and cramped. Why must I be claustrophobic? Damn my genetics... _She thought. "Signor Frollo, wait, por favore!" She grabbed hold of his arm. "Is...is this the only way?"

He looked down at her with a worried expression. "Yes, unfortunately. Why do you ask, Miss Diorio?"

Since it was truly the only path, and because she did not wish to make a fool of herself or worry him further, she decided not to tell him what was the matter. "Oh...I was just wondering. Because...I cannot see very well."

He gave her a warm smile and a pat on the head. "Do not worry, there are no pews in here, and you may keep hold of my robes if you wish."

"Grazie, Signor Frollo." She smiled up at him nervously. Without another word, the two proceeded down the long, dark, and unbelievably tight corridor.

About five minutes into the stone corridor, Samantha began breathing heavily and unevenly. Although she could see nothing but blackness, she knew instantly that she was beginning to black out. "Si...Signor Frollo..." She panted. "I-I ca...cannot...bre...breathe..."

"What?" Claude turned around, unable to _see_ her face, he felt for it. Her face was drenched with cold sweat, and was shaking quite violently. "What is wrong, mademoiselle?" He began to panic, but calmed himself the best he could. He pushed down on her shoulders, making her sit down on the cold stone floor. Hovering over her, he fanned her with his hat, trying to keep her conscious. But it was no use, she went limp in his grip, and had fainted. Not knowing what else to do, he maneuvered so that he could put her on his back to carry her to the end of the corridor. Once he had a solid hold on her, he stretched upright and sprinted.

Thankfully the corridor was straight, or he would have had no chance of making it out in one dash. Arm stretched out in front of him, he felt a wooden door and stopped in mid-run. He opened the door, which led into a well-furnished, candle-lit room. He set her down on a bed, and looked for a well. The well looked to be new, and it ran deep down into the earth. He pulled up a bucket of water, rushed back over to the unconscious flutist's side, and splashed her face with the cool liquid a little at a time. She stirred, but did not wake. It was enough to tell him that she was okay.

He felt a little too nervous to leave after she had just blacked out, so he sat beside her, waiting for her to come back. He studied her face further. The temptation to take off her mask and reveal her identity to himself alone was unbearable, so he propped her head up onto his knee, and undid the black ribbon holding the beautiful Venetian Mask to her face. He pulled it away hesitantly, and then set it down next to her. The bridge of her nose, unlike the rest of the people in her family, had no bump on it, but it was long and prominent. She had high cheekbones, and a strong jaw. Her forehead was a little on the large side, but it went well with her naturally thin eyebrows.

Claude found her strangely beautiful. She possessed not the beauty of a Gypsy, but that of a royal Italian woman. _It really is her. _He thought, quite surprised with his own discovery. He stroked her jaw line and the bridge of her nose tentatively. They were smooth, like a baby's skin. Running one finger over her full lips, he had the inescapable desire to kiss them.

_Just once...only one time...it could not hurt... _Without further hesitation, he carefully lifted her head, and touched his lips against hers. He inhaled deeply, completely intoxicated with her scent. He moved his bottom lip, locking her lips with his completely. She still did not wake.


	4. Chords

Claude was beginning to feel "strange" again. But, no matter what, he could not force himself to stop the kiss. Someone, even the unconscious Italian herself, would have to stop _him_. He gently caressed her, pulling their bodies closer together. Stroking her hair and her jaw, he inhaled once more, only this time, deeper and longer. Her scent made his mind generate an image of a bakery somewhere in Italy. Rows upon rows of freshly baked pumpernickel, wheat, rye, and dessert breads flashed across his mind. It was downright splendid.

Unable to contain himself, he lightly ran his tongue across her bottom lip. It was as if an entire vat of Italy's finest white wine had been drained inside his mouth.

_Bread and wine...what a lovely combination. _He thought, smiling to himself at the sheer delight his first kiss was bringing him. He hoped with all his heart that it would not be his last with the flutist.

Once again, Samantha stirred, this time groaning a little. Claude unwillingly pulled away, and her sharp green eyes opened little by little.

"What happened?" She pondered.

"You did not tell me you were claustrophobic." Claude greeted her with a smile. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, thank you Signor Frollo. Wait..." she paused. "I feel lightheaded... literally." She pressed her fingers under her eyes and gasped. "My mask! Where...?" She looked down, and laying face-up on the bed next to her was her one-of-a-kind Venetian Mask. "Thank God... wait, did you...?"

Claude gave her a tiny apologetic smile. "I wanted to see your face, mademoiselle. Please forgive me."

She glared at her mask, refusing to say a word. Her grip on his arm tightened. He was sure he would have bruises the next day, but it was alright.

"I...I am truly sorry, Miss Diorio..." He apologized again, turning his head in an attempt to see her face.

"It is no trouble at all, Signor Frollo." She replied without much tone to her voice. She sighed, looked up, and locked eyes with him. "I wear my mask not to hide my face from the people... but to hide it from _myself_."

"Why?" Claude was clearly stumped. He caressed her face with one hand, holding her hand with the other. "Such a beautiful...you should be proud!"

"Diorio."

"What...?"

A sad, hollow expression crossed her face. "My mother is from a poor Venetian family. My father...is a Roman emperor." When Claude heard this, he sworn his heart stopped. "Maria Vozza and Christophoro Diorio...how they met, I still have no idea. But, father made sure we lived a life of luxury. For my royal background, I was bullied a lot by the other kids at school, and was not looked up to, but looked _down_ upon like some vermin. It turns out that all Diorio's suffer the same. The people of Italia seem to hold a grudge against descendants of the Roman Empire's leaders."

Claude was speechless. He had thought that she looked like Italian royalty, but never could have guessed that she really was. He took a glance at how she was sitting: legs together, on the edge of the bed, spine straight, chin out, shoulders back...it was all extremely proper. Finding his voice, he decided to ask her a question that was non-royalty related. "Who are you a descendant of?"

"Julius Caesar." She looked back at her mask. "I constantly wear my mask for I do not wish to see myself as who I really am...a Diorio. I prefer being known to myself and to others as "Piper"...the flutist." She picked up her Venetian Mask and was beginning to put it to her face, but she paused. "I always felt that if I could change just my last name, I would not mind being me. Maybe to Vozza...or Sparelli..."

"Or Frollo..." Claude said quietly without thinking. The moment he said it, he threw a hand over his mouth in shock at himself.

_What...the hell? _He thought. Looking at Samantha, who had a confused expression upon her face, he began to relax, and dropped his hand. Apparently, he said it quietly enough for her not to hear.

"Is something wrong Signor Frollo?" She had not yet put her mask on, but was looking directly into Claude's eyes. Her striking peridot irises glistened with something he did not understand.

"Um...no...I just remembered...um..." He was looking for any excuse to leave before he said anything, or _did_ anything else wrong. "My son!"

"You have a child?" Samantha raised an eyebrow accusingly. She must have thought that he had broken a law of the Catholic Church.

"Adopted." He reassured her. Her expression eased. "His mother died, and his father was arrested. So, I took him in." With a smile, he stood and rested a hand on her head. "I shall return later. Please, for God's sake, do _not _enter the corridor. I shall speak with the Archdeacon about a different room." Smile still lingering on his lips, he turned his back and walked towards the doorway, allowing his hand to gradually slip off of her head. "Oh, and one more thing: I would prefer if you kept your mask off." He turned his head just enough to catch her in the corner of his eye. He frowned slightly when he saw that she had already put her mask back on. "You are no longer in Italy and are out of harm's way. Why not begin anew? Also..." he paused, choosing his next words wisely. "Your beauty should not be hidden."With that, he exited the room and shut the door behind him.

He was not sure if that had been the best choice of words, and he wondered if he should have tried harder to resist kissing the flutist. Finding himself completely shocked by the fact that she really is the Italian flutist whom he had seen performing onstage not a year ago, he took a few paces forward, and then leaned against the wall allowing himself to slide down onto the cold, stone floor.

_I really should visit Quasimodo...he will wonder where I have been and why I have not went up to the bell tower today. _He thought, and then chuckled to himself without a trace of humor. _Ah, the bell tower. Even after I offered him a nice room in the Cathedral on several occasions, I do not understand why that boy would rather stay up there. _He was about to stand up and walk away to go to the bell tower, but a certain sound stopped him. It was coming from Samantha's room. To his surprise, it was not her flute, but she was singing.

"My dear..." Claude whispered while listening. "Such a beautiful voice..." He was unsure of what the meaning was, for she sang it in Latin, but without a doubt, it was a Gregorian Chant, titled Salve Regina. "Not music meant for a soloist...or a woman...but either way, it is absolutely gorgeous. Like...Heaven's light..." Putting a hand over his heart, for some odd reason he felt it speed up and his chest grow warm. It was a new sensation for him, and he enjoyed it, although he was not sure what it was supposed to mean. With Esmeralda, his skin burnt like fire, but this heat was different. Looking back on it, he had the same warm feeling at the Festival of Fools a year back.

Not daring to stick around any longer -just in case he was caught listening- he quickly stood up and continued making his way down the corridor. Upon reaching the end, he took one last look behind him. All was black. Smiling to himself, he opened the wooden door which lead to the spiral staircase, and climbed his way up to the bell tower.

It was quite a warm night, even for midsummer. No birds sang on this particular evening, the air was dry, and no crickets could be heard at this altitude. The only sound that was able to be made out by Claude's sensitive ears was the faint sound of his own leather shoes padding along the stone floor. Approaching the edge of the tower, he looked up into the night sky. The stars were shining brighter on this night than on any other night. Looking carefully, he raised a thin index finger and traced a few star constellations. The big dipper, the little dipper, Orion's belt, Orion, and he was about to trace Cygnus when a large, muscular hand placed itself on his broad shoulder and startled him. Upon turning around, he saw the silhouette of his adopted son, Quasimodo, or, the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

"Good evening, Quasimodo." Claude greeted him with a small smile. "Lovely night, is it not?"

"Good evening, monsieur." Quasimodo returned his smile. "And indeed it is!" He pointed out the constellation that Claude was about to trace. "That one is Cygnus, right?"

Squinting, Claude found what he was pointing to. Holding back a small laugh, he said, "Yes, in fact it is, dear boy."

"So, what brings you by tonight?"

"Well, I always visit everyday, do I not?" Claude shrugged. "You are my son. Oh, and I was wondering, again, if you would care to..."

"Have a room inside the Cathedral?" Quasimodo finished for him. He nodded and the Hunchback continued. "I am quite happy up here in my tower. I leave when I please and still get to ring the bells. I love it!"

Of course. The reason that was given to the minister every time. It seems that he would never get Quasimodo to understand that he should not have to stay up there. But, whatever made the boy happy, he guessed he would have to be content with. He hoped, again, that by winter, perhaps he would reconsider the offer.

"If you say so, Quasimodo." Claude gave in. "But just remember, you are more than welcome inside."

"Understood." Quasimodo smiled and took a seat on the smooth stone barrier of the tower's edge. "So, tell me about her." He said, still smiling and without looking to his adopted father.

"...what?" The random request from the Hunchback had the minister stumped.

"You know, the Italian flutist!" Quasimodo looked at him, his grin widening. "What is she like? Is she nice? Is she pretty? Tell me!"

Thankfully it was too dark to see, for Claude felt his face grow hot, and he knew that he was blushing. Apparently the subject of women, even after the whole Esmeralda ordeal, did not seem to bother the kindhearted Hunchback, for he knew that Claude was a different person, a better one.

"Well...um..." Claude cleared his throat. "Um...she is a very kind person, a little on the blunt side, has a sharp mind...she dresses...exotically? And...well... she is..."

"Yes?" Quasimodo leaned in, either eager to hear more, or from lack of hearing because Claude had unknowingly lowered his voice.

"Bea...royalty!" He changed his mind at the last second, hoping that it was enough to throw the Hunchback off. But it was no use.

"Royalty? That is quite interesting. But, what does she look like?"

Claude sighed in defeat and put a hand over his face. "She is beautiful, Quasimodo...not like a Gypsy...but, she has a unique beauty about her..."

Quasimodo merely smiled to himself. He wanted to say something, something that may even prove to be of value to the minister, but he was afraid it would only make him angry, or worse, upset at himself.

"I hope to meet her sometime." Was all the Hunchback could muster. "Anyone who loves music is a friend of mine." He hopped down from his perch on the barrier, gave his adopted father a quick hug, and said, "Goodnight, monsieur. See you tomorrow, and try to get some rest, please?"

"Right...right...goodnight, dear boy." Claude was about to head back downstairs when he heard the Archdeacon and his priests performing their nightly rounds around the church and through the Cathedral. They were singing Gregorian Chants, just like any other night. But tonight's first Chant seemed special to him. It was what Samantha had been singing earlier: Salve Regina.


	5. Solo

"Be still my heart." Claude whispered to himself. He leaned against the barrier listening intently, comparing the voices of the monks to Samantha's voice. He always believed that the monks, when all together, had the most glorious voice that went unmatched; but now that he knew a musician's voice and its beauty, he was convinced that no sound could ever come close to how wonderful her voice sounded. Just for fun, and just to bother the Archdeacon, he considered telling him that they should have the Venetian flutist perform their rounds from now on. He was sure that she could handle it.

"Wait..." For a split second, he felt his heart skip a beat. "How did Quasimodo...what?..." He turned around on his heels, skidding a little, and then quickly strutting off into the darkness of the inner bell tower. "Quasimodo?" He called out quietly, not wanting to wake the Hunchback if he was already asleep.

As if just to give him a heart attack, Quasimodo dropped silently from the wooden rafters above, landing right behind him with a soft thud. Much to the bell ringer's surprise, Claude jumped about a half a foot into the air. "You called?" He tried to sound natural and not laugh.

"Ah...um...yes, dear boy. How did you know about Samantha?" Claude took off his hat and rustled his hair.

Quasimodo chuckled. "I saw everything from the tower. You know...when you two came to the Cathedral and the Archdeacon greeted you." He winked at Claude who could feel his face growing hot again. This time, the minister knew that it was truly too dark to see, so he lucked out. "I think you two will get along well."

Unable to bear the heat of his own face any longer, Claude quickly spun on his heels again, making his way towards the stairs. "Forgive me, Quasimodo...I do not feel well...good night!" He said in a rush, and then dead bolted down the stone stairs. Almost tripping over his own feet in front of the doorway to the same corridor he carried the flutist down, he grabbed the handle in a desperation to catch himself. He looked down at his awkward position and stifled a laugh. He shifted himself upright and opened the door to the corridor. He remembered that he had promised to meet Samantha in the room again later.

Once again at the five minute point down the tight, stone walkway, he stopped. Yet again a sound could be heard from the Italian's room. It was her flute this time. He immediately recognized the melody; it was Greensleeves. He adored this piece, and it gave him the desire to dance down the corridor and into the room, but he resisted. He had to admit, he had always been the one to love English classics. No one but the Archdeacon could understand why, for everyone else he had contact with had a certain grudge against the British. Oh well, their loss. He figured that as soon as the Festival of Fools came around once more, they would learn what good music was.

An idea suddenly struck him._ What if I were to seek out the other members of Le Anime di Venezia? If I can get them back onstage with Miss Diorio, it would surely make her happy. _He smiled at the thought of once again hearing the amazing group of Italian musicians, and pleasing his new friend. He nodded once to himself in self-approval, and decided that it was just what he would do. He thought that it would have to remain a secret to Samantha until the day of the Festival came in a month and a half. Before he knew it, he had reached the door to the flutist's room.

Suddenly, he heard a high-pitched squeak that hurt his ears.

"Damn it!" He had heard Samantha curse to herself in a husky, irritated voice. She then cleared her throat. "Ugh, I can never hit that note without putting too much air in. Oh well...once more from the top."

Claude found it strangely cute that she talked to herself while practicing. He tried to stifle a chuckle, but he could not do it. When nothing was heard from inside the room, he figured that he must have been discovered due to the Venetian flutist's ultra-sensitive ears. _Wait... _he began to dread this. _If she heard me now...she must have heard my slip..._ One bead of cold sweat ran down the side of his face. He quickly wiped it off and knocked on the door.

"Si?" Samantha replied in Italian.

He decided to let himself in. "Good evening, Miss Diorio." He smiled at her warmly, and she returned his smile with a broad grin. Her teeth were as white as the snow, and perfectly aligned; just like his. She set her flute down carefully on the bed and stood up. Claude was beginning to wonder just how tall she was. If he was six and a half feet tall, and she only came up to his chest, then she must have been only around five foot six to five foot eight.

"So, Signor Frollo." She bowed to him slightly. "How is your son?"

"He is doing quite well, thank you for asking." If he were going to be honest with himself, he had no clue why he was there. Only because he had promised her that he would return later, but other than that, he was stumped. "Um..." he decided to ask her something just to keep the conversation going normally. "How tall are you?" _Okay, Claude...dumb question. _He wanted to say to himself.

"Hmm..." Samantha put a delicate, gloved finger to her chin. She walked behind him, pressed her back to his, and put her hand down on her head and pushing it a little into his back. Stepping away, she looked behind her at where her hand rested, and then asked; "That depends. How tall are _you_?"

"Six and a half."

"Then I would say about five foot eight...ish..." She wheeled around in front of him. "Why do you ask, Signor?" She looked at him curiously from behind her mask.

"Oh...no reason..." He said quickly. "I was just wondering...because...you looked...about that height..." He was stumbling for words, wondering what to say. He did not at all wish to sound like a bumbling idiot -which he probably did anyway- and he needed a somewhat reasonable answer to that question. To his surprise, the flutist just giggled, turned her back, and slid over to the window.

"They are very good." She said. "I love Gregorian Chants." He realized that she was talking about the Archdeacon and the monks.

"Ah, indeed they are. My favorite chant would have to be...Salve Regina...?" He honestly had no clue what his actual favorite chant was, but after hearing her sing, he would have to say that Salve Regina was the one.

"Oh, what a coincidence. Mine too." She turned around and smiled at him.

Feeling his heart throb, Claude figured that it would be best for him to leave. He walked up to her and put a hand on her shoulder. "Well, Miss Diorio. I apologize, but I believe that I must be heading to bed early tonight. It is my turn to prepare the Cathedral for Mass tomorrow morning. Yay me..."

Samantha giggled, stood up on her toes and quickly kissed his cheeks: an Italian greeting that he knew _very_ well at this point. "Okay, Signor Frollo. I shall be at Mass tomorrow. Buona notte."

Face turning red and hot once again, Claude cleared his throat and patted her head. "Y...yes, Miss Diorio. Bonne nuit."

After exiting the room once more, and shutting the door behind himself as quietly as he could, he took off sprinting down the corridor and down the stairs. He had no clue whatsoever as to what could have come over him, but whatever it was, he knew for a fact that it was his "strange desires" coming back to haunt him.

Rounding the corner, still running at full speed, he found the door to his own room. This time, he was unable to slow down and or stop on a dime so to speak, and he ended up with his face flat against the large, wooden double doors. "Ouch..." Rubbing his nose, he pushed open the door hastily, and without bothering to change from his judicial cassock into his night robes, he set his hat on his desk, crawled into his bed, and forced himself to quickly drift off into a deep sleep.

Claude was not exactly sure where he was. White walls, white marble floor, a dome ceiling, stained glass, paintings of angels, and sculptures of them with the Holy Mother, Mary. The whole place was lit with many hundreds of candles. Looking around, he saw a few men in red robes walking in the arced corridors. They wore lovely golden crosses around their necks, and a few of them wore a headdress similar to the Pope's. He figured that they must be Cardinals. And if that were so, it meant that he was in the Vatican itself.

In reality, he had always dreamed of seeing the world renounced Church up close and personal, but he never even thought that he would get the chance to look inside of it. He was amazed, and he wished that he could stay there. Suddenly, voices echoed from all around him. In such a wide area, he had no way of telling where they were coming from. All he knew was that the hour of the Chanters had come; where all the men in the Vatican choir would sing Gregorian Chants. Once again, he was listening to Salve Regina. This time: by professionals.

"Signor!" A stern voice addressed him from somewhere in the Church. He looked around, but could not make out the individual who had called him from the cluster of Cardinals. "Signor Frollo!" The voice was closer this time, but he still could not figure out which direction the voice was coming from. "Claude!" Now he recognized the voice. He had never been called by his name by this voice before, and it made his heart flutter and his skin burn. Turning himself around completely, he found himself transfixed by a beautiful sight...literally. It was Samantha, but she looked very different. She was not wearing her mask, her hair was pinned up, which exposed her masculine features, and she was not wearing her festive performing outfit, but she was in a Cardinal's uniform. On top of her head was the semi-pointed headdress the other Cardinals wore, and she had a golden cross hanging from her neck just like them. Claude had always believed in angels, but he never thought he'd actually _see_ one.

Without warning, she threw herself into him at full-force, knocking him back into a pillar. And without giving either of them a chance to speak, she pressed her lips to his, forcing him into a very long, breathtaking, heart-stopping kiss. She did not hold back, and whenever Claude tried to resist because of his burning desires, she pushed him harder against the pillar. He realized that she was actually very strong for her size.

"Resistance is futile, Claude." She said softly in between their kiss. Unable to bear it any longer, he gave in to her. Worse yet, he gave in to his better judgment. Before he knew it, _he_ was the one in control. If it were not for the forceful hand pulling him away from her, he would have most likely let it get out of control.

"Aiyaa!" Claude woke with a start early next morning. "It...it was all a dream... thank God..." He would have never been able to forgive himself if it had actually happened. Without thinking, he jumped out of bed, not bothering to make it neat, and sped down into the inner Cathedral.

"Must prepare for Mass...and...ugh..." He was not sure what to think at this moment. His skin burned at the very thought of his dream, and his heart beat unsteadily from picturing the Venetian flutist from his dream in his mind. It was obviously a bad idea to take her in, but he thought that he was doing the right thing. Anyone would have said that he did, but if they knew him from the incident with Esmeralda, they would have scolded him, without a doubt. He wished he could talk to someone about this, for there was one part he did not understand: why his heart ached while his skin felt like it was on fire. That was another new one for him to eventually get. His best bet would be to speak with Quasimodo. But even if he did, he wondered if it would make a difference. Not to mention, he had no clue whatsoever what Samantha was thinking or feeling. He figured that she must be somewhat frightened due to the fact that her enemy was harboring her. But, she seemed fine around him. Perhaps she recognized him from the Festival a year back, but was keeping from saying anything.

Whatever it was, he would have to talk to Quasimodo about himself, and to another female about Samantha. But who? He set a golden goblet upon a desk next to a bottle of red wine. Then, it hit him. "Esmeralda..." he said silently. "Only she would know enough to help." His heart sank when he realized that there had not even been news of a sighting of her for six years. His only hope was nowhere to be found.


	6. Duet

Grumbling to himself, Claude walked out of the Cathedral, unsure of where he was going, or what he would do with himself. His thoughts had been more or less a clustered ball of confusion since he woke up. He just wanted to find a place to sit down and contemplate without the possibility of being found by someone. He doubted that the Archdeacon would simply allow him to skip Mass without giving him some trouble for it, but he needed time to himself. If he consulted the Archdeacon about his problem, he was positive that only the worst possible outcomes would arise from the situation.

Looking up at the sky, he saw dark clouds rolling in. Light from the sun pierced through them, sending soft rays down to the earth below. They illuminated the stained glass of the Cathedral behind him as well as parts of the river and a few homes. Guessing that a storm was blowing in, he wondered if it was the Lord's way of telling him that he had better not do anything immoral, or even stupid for that matter. Now that he thought about it, perhaps simply praying for help or forgiveness would be sufficient, but all the same, he would have to confess to the Archdeacon. Although confessions are sacred, the knowledge only being shared between the sinner, the priest, and the Lord, he didn't exactly have it in him to do something. In his mind, he had not yet done anything wrong. Other than kissing the flutist in her sleep...and sending an army to Italy. Then again, the army getting completely out of his control could possibly not be his fault. He was not sure.

Stopping by the river, he leaned over a rail and stared into the clear water. Hungry fish gathered around his reflection, hoping for some bread. "Forgive me." Claude sighed quietly. "I have nothing for you." Looking over his shoulder, he noticed a small bakery just opening their doors to the public. He walked over to it silently, searching his pockets for any loose change. Finding a silver piece, he smiled to himself. The baker certainly looked surprised to see him.

"Good morning, monsieur." A younger gentleman behind the counter greeted him. "I..do not have any fresh bread yet." He recoiled, as if afraid that Claude would attack him. He was shocked when the taller man placed the silver piece on the counter.

"It is quite alright." Claude tried to hold a smile. "I simply want to feed the fish." Nodding once, the young man pulled out a small loaf of bread and wrapped it in a patterned cloth. He was about to give Claude several bronze pieces as change, but Claude held up his hand and shook his head. "Please. Keep it."

The young man smiled brightly. "Thank you, kind sir!" He waved goodbye to Claude as he left the shop. Going back over to the river, Claude noticed there were even more fish than before. He tore off small chunks of bread at a time and tossed it to them. Sighing quietly, he was reminded of his situation as thunder rang out from the distance. Looking up at the sky, he feared if he stuck around any longer, not only would he miss Mass, but he would be soaked by the time he got back to the Cathedral.

"No matter." He grunted to himself. "I can stay...for now." He took no notice as the rain began to drip down little by little, but just kept his mind focused on the fish instead. If he looked close enough, he noticed that they were not only one colour, but their scales shone a different colour in different light. Rainbow fish, or just a coincidence? Once he was out of bread for them, all of them left. All but one, that is. It looked up at him silently, not begging for more, but as if trying to tell him something. He noticed that it was much smaller than the rest of the fish. The unwanted runt, perhaps?

"Wait here." He had no idea why he was talking to a fish like it would actually understand him, but he strode away from the river, searching around for a glass bowl of some sort. Finding one laying on the side of a bridge, he picked it up. It was perfectly fine, but abandoned. "Strange...but it will do." The rain began to pelt down hard against his cassock. If he did not hurry, he would be a heavy, wet mass of cloth by the time he got home. Sliding down the side of the river, he held on to one of the poles of the railing with one hand, and scooped the fish up in the bowl with the other, surprised that it waited for him.

Climbing back up was a challenge in his soaked cassock, but he managed to get up to the street without harming himself or dropping the bowl. "Now," he smiled at the fish, exhausted from his ascent. "Quasimodo will love you." He had once heard Quasimodo say something about considering getting a pet.

Stirring from her sleep, Samantha woke to the sound of thunder rather than the sound of the church bells. It was odd, considering she knew there was Mass this morning. Looking outside her window, she watched the sky grow darker. She sat in silence on the window sill, with the window open. She would close it if it started raining. Below her, guards scrambled from their training grounds to get inside before the brewing storm hit. Secretly, she wished one of them would get struck by lightning while in their armour. Just one. It would amuse her after everything they have done to her friends and family.

She shook off the thought with a nervous laugh. "I'm Catholic...I cannot forget that." Trying to ignore her folly, she looked back up at the sky. It was getting close to blackness. Something was not quite right. "I'm...Catholic...?" She scratched the back of her head. She was raised to be so, and she had tried to follow through with it her entire life, but as soon as she got into the performance area of musicianship, she began working with Gypsies, Wiccans, Pagans, old Roman and Greek mythology believers, witches, and even some who upheld the traditions of the old Vikings and their mythologies. Being exposed to such had opened her mind to all the possibilities. It was hard to tell what exactly she "believed" to be true now.

There was a slight knock at her door, breaking her from her train of thought. "Si?" She stood up to open it. The Archdeacon walked in, half asleep. "Buono giorno, signor." She smiled slightly.

"Good morning, friend." He smiled sleepily and yawned. "Forgive me. We must cancel Mass this morning, and perhaps evening, too."

"Why is that?" She was taken aback by that statement, having never heard of someone having to cancel Mass before.

"One of our Gypsy friends has been tracking the oncoming storm. A tornado has touched down near Paris, and he believes he sees more forming." Unsure of what to say, Samantha stood there, dumbfounded. "We can trust him. His weather updates have always been accurate."

"Where...is signor Frollo?" She stammered quietly, fearing the worst possible scenario.

"I have not the slightest." The Archdeacon sighed sadly, leaning against the wall. "I have searched the whole Cathedral. The monks have not seen him either, nor have the nuns." He would never tell Claude to his face, but he cared a lot about the Minister. "I hate to ask this of you...but will you go looking? In my age, I could not make it without a horse, and the horses in our barn are terrified of storms. Except for Snowball...but he is...difficult."

Samantha nodded once. "I will go." Looking down from the window, she estimated the drop to be a little over a hundred feet. "Easy." Finding a long rope in the corner of the room, she tied one end tightly around a sturdy candle holder on the wall. Gripping the other end, she jumped out of the window. Swinging around the rounded side of the Cathedral, gravity caught her. She planted her feet against the stone wall about fifty feet still off the ground. From there, she loosened up on the rope a little at a time and rappelled down the wall until she reached the ground.

Sprinting off into the inner city, she began to become pelted by rain. It was obscuring her vision terribly. Or perhaps...her mask was. She ignored it for the most part, but her glasses fogged up quickly, making her blind to the streets ahead of her. Unable to see, she rammed into a few people by mistake, who were running for their own shelter.

"Oh forget it." She gave in. Yanking her mask off her face, she held onto it in one hand, and pulled her glasses away with the other hand. She wasn't sure what was worse. Being blinded by fog, or blinded by terrible eye sight. Everything was more or less a blur of colour to her until she got close enough. Spotting a tall figure clad in black, she rushed to see if it was Claude. Sure enough, it was him. By the river holding a fish of all things.

"Signor Frollo?" She called out, causing Claude to look over his shoulder. His heart skipped a beat and he began feeling "strange" again, but he turned to face her anyway. She was soaked to the bone, and to his pleasant surprise, her face was free from the cover of her mask. A small delighted smile crept up from his thin lips, and he stood there, transfixed.

"Oui?" He smiled wider, his eyes half shut in a daze. Reaching up, she patted the side of his face, trying to break his trance. He shook his head and looked up at the sky. "Oh, hello."

"Si. We have a storm. A big one. Let us go." She hastily grabbed his free hand and took off running back towards the Cathedral. She couldn't get over how cold he was to the touch. It felt nice to her, but it was a bit worrisome.

Claude struggled to keep hold on the fish. "Please, slow down!" He groaned. "I do not wish to drop this one."

She slowed down enough for him to keep a steady hold. "What **_is_** the fish for, anyway?" She wondered.

"My son wants a pet." Claude shrugged. "I thought he would like the fish." Quasimodo has always had a compassion for animals that confused others. The fish looked back up at Claude. "Yes, I will find a bigger bowl for you." He sighed.

"I...did not think you talked to...animals..." Samantha dragged him inside the Cathedral and shut the doors behind her. Looking from herself to Claude, she panted in exhaustion, as did he. Their heavy clothing weighed them both down greatly.

"I will give this to Quasimodo, then find something to put on while our clothes dry." He huffed, trying to shake off the fatigue. "Wait at the top of the stairs." With that, he trudged up the bell tower to find Quasimodo.


End file.
